


and love is not a choice

by paperclipbitch



Category: Finishing School - Gail Carriger
Genre: Dresses, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Fic Exchange, Fluff, Future Fic, Misses Clause Challenge, Spies & Secret Agents, Yuletide, Yuletide 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody’s dress has been ruined and the gardens aren’t yet ablaze, and Dimity has had many, many lessons over the years on leaving at the opportune moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and love is not a choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haipollai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haipollai/gifts).



> [Title is from Panic! At The Disco's _Girls/Girls/Boys_.] This is set in the future of the Finishing School 'verse, but although I've read _Manners & Mutiny_, I've tried only to use a few bits of information imparted, rather than a) spoiling the book for anyone who hasn't read it, or b) actually following the hints for the future laid down in the book, as they'd prevent me writing adorbs femslash fluff!
> 
> **haipollai** requested no awkward love triangle things, so I've written out Sophronia's relationship with Soap - though I do like to think they're BFFs - and hopefully you like this!

To a sparkling waltz, Dimity laughs her tinkling laugh that she keeps as light and hard as the stunning chandelier above, honed to a fine diamond point, and keeps her fingertips resting lightly on the arm of the lord she’s currently dancing with. He’s stepped on her feet twice, and she wants to check the damage to her darling new silk slippers and maybe exact some kind of painful revenge if she finds some, but she lets none of this show in her face. She’s every bit the sweet, bright young woman the lord expects to see, batting her eyelashes at him at the speed drilled into them all; not too fast, not too slow, not too seductive. Just the right bat, and a woman can acquire any information she desires.

As Lady Linette told them so many times, a man will tell an interested woman anything.

When the dance finishes, Dimity curtseys politely, thanks him for a _wonderful_ dance, and begs off another on the basis of needing a glass of punch. She won’t drink any, because they haven’t yet established if the punch is _actually_ poisoned or not, but she delicately holds a glass and fans herself idly, keeping an eye on the fans of all the other women in the room. Some are using their fans for flirtation, and Dimity dismisses them easily enough, though she stores the gossip away for later because they’re told to collect information of _all_ kinds, after all, and she instead focuses on everyone else. Many of the women have no idea about the language of fans, which makes Dimity pity them because it is such a _useful_ way to pass messages, and nothing of any import is being telegraphed. She keeps her expression neutral, and her eyes and ears open.

Dimity is happy with her current assignment; she does so like any excuse to don her finery, and while her love of fripperies and jewels periodically got her sniffed at by her teachers at school, she’s since found that it’s very easy to be underestimated when you’re dripping with lace and rubies, and people will tell you all _kinds_ of things. Equally, they are happy to believe you would never even _dream_ of subterfuge, because you’re so _visible_. A woman who shines can get away with almost anything, Dimity has cheerfully found, provided she is confident about it and wearing shoes good for running in later on.

Sophronia looked almost pitying when she left Dimity at the party, as she does almost every time, but Dimity does enjoy parties and balls and dinners and gatherings of all kinds, whether she’s attending them as a spy or not, and she’d much rather be down here listening to the jumble of conversation around her and wearing a delightful frock than doing what Sophronia is doing upstairs, which is far messier and agile and has the potential to cause several kinds of physical injury. She’s due back in a minute or so, actually, Dimity reflects, eyes flicking to a clock on the mantelpiece above the roaring fire; Sophronia often cuts things fine, but she hopes that she won’t be late; Dimity does so hate having to track her down, partially because it is a surefire way to ruin any outfit, partially because it often involves things like _clambering_ , and partially because there is almost always guaranteed to be blood. She swoons slightly less often than she did as a girl at the sight of blood, but not much less often, and things tend to run more smoothly if she allows Sophronia to take care of the messy parts, while she takes care of the parts that require patience, and the underestimation of those around her.

Dimity feels a little awkward refusing to dance with a nervous young man with an _Honourable_ in front of his name – he is being so brave even asking, anxiety peeling around the corners of his mouth – but she feigns fatigue, fluttering her fan and her eyelashes until he’s smiling again and backing away.

“How daintily you do that,” remarks a voice beside her, and Dimity takes care to turn at a normal pace and not whirl around. She has been keeping her gaze on all the entrances to the room, and Sophronia didn’t enter by any of them. She looks a little flushed, though it will be easy to blame that on the warmth in the ballroom, and her hair is a little wispy where it’s starting to escape its pearl pins, but overall she is as presentable as she was when she arrived earlier this evening, emerging from a carriage a safe distance from Dimity’s own.

“We can’t all terrorise them away with a look,” Dimity responds cheerfully, pleased both that Sophronia is alright, and that she will not have to discreetly exit the ballroom and seek her out. Sophronia can tell this, the quirk at the corner of her mouth reading plainly enough, but Dimity doesn’t mind; they both have their strengths and their preferences.

Sophronia sighs a little dramatically, though quietly enough that only Dimity will hear, and says: “I suppose I’ll need to find one myself, dance, and then develop a terrible headache and a pressing need to go home.”

This is how most of these nights end; Dimity doesn’t regret many of the circumstances of her life since being trained to be a spy at a young age, but she does occasionally wonder what it would be like to stay at a party until it ended. Then again, Sophronia is bright-eyed and delighted, the curl of her mouth managing to be both demure and wicked, and nobody’s dress has been ruined and the gardens aren’t yet ablaze, and Dimity has had many, many lessons over the years on leaving at the opportune moment, either to avoid alerting suspicion, or before things become unpleasant. Parties have a tendency to explode far less than they did during Dimity’s adolescence, but an evening can always unravel itself; it’s happened far too often for Dimity to feign naiveté on that score.

And then, of course, there’s the way Sophronia’s mouth is lilting at her, and only for her. Dimity doesn’t mind missing a little more gossip and a few more dances for _that_ ; not at all.

-

Sophronia’s maid brings them tea; it’s well after midnight, but some things are delightful at all times, after all.

As is fitting for a house belonging to a secret intelligencer, Sophronia’s personal maid is discreet, doesn’t bat an eyelid at any amount of ruined clothing, blood, or weaponry, and is perfectly capable of defending the house with a pistol in one hand and a sabre in the other. She doesn’t mind the odd hours Sophronia keeps, or the odd visitors that drop in frequently, or whether the visitors go back to their own homes afterwards. Dimity enjoys gossip, after all, but not when it concerns herself.

She sips assam and leans back into a plush armchair, wriggling her toes in her dancing slippers, which are beginning to think about pinching, but luckily have sustained no damage from her evening. Espionage is frequently not kind to one’s clothing. Dimity knows that her curls are starting to drift out of where she elegantly pinned them earlier, while Sophronia kicked off her boots and picked out her hairpins while they were still waiting on tea; Sophronia has braided her hair to fall easily over one shoulder. It makes her look younger, softer around the edges, as though her pendant doesn’t contain emergency garrotte wire and the fan tucked into her reticule isn’t viciously bladed. A pleased grin tickling Sophronia’s mouth at their successful night, her hair messy and her eyes bright; it all reminds Dimity of nights at school, tucked up in their rooms, the first hazy anxious times they sat close enough for Sophronia to wrap one of Dimity’s curls around her fingertip, hesitantly brush a kiss against her mouth.

Dimity was never marked highly in seduction exams, but somehow she doesn’t mind very much these days.

Bumbersnoot, who somehow manages to stay in one piece despite his habit of getting into places where he shouldn’t, and Sophronia’s habit of feeding him experimental devices that periodically explode, totters cheerfully around the parlour. He whistles to himself and occasionally brushes past Dimity’s ankles with something like fondness. He’s a little battered, but looking better than the last time she saw him.

“He’s had a little holiday in France,” Sophronia explains, reading Dimity’s thoughts in her expression; a lot of their conversations don’t have both vocal parts to them, and while some of this is their training, ensuring any enemy agents eavesdropping wouldn’t be able to understand, some of it is sheer familiarity. Schooling endeavoured to drum into their heads that however much you have faith in someone, you cannot trust them completely. Dimity is willing to follow that belief, but only so far; she knows that she can trust Sophronia, absolutely and entirely.

They drink their tea in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the occasional clink of a teaspoon against bone china, or a little whistle from Bumbersnoot, who refuses to be trained out of trying to eat the curtains. After the chatter and music of the ball, of straining to catch words both spoken and unspoken, and not miss a single ounce of communication in any medium, the quiet is a relief, Sophronia’s familiar body language soothing. Dimity leans her head back against the cushions and drifts a little, warm and safe and content in this home that is Sophronia’s, but also a little hers as well.

Later, they tiptoe upstairs; not because there’s really anyone to overhear or care if they did, but being light on their feet is natural, stepping around any creaky floorboards, easing the doors open with care. No houses employ mechanicals now, of course, and even if they did there would be no need for Sophronia to avoid her own, but their quick quiet movements remind Dimity of sneaking around their finishing school, skimming around trying not to awaken a shrieking metallic maid. Dimity finds herself giggling a little nevertheless; Sophronia’s fingers reach to curl through hers, tugging her onwards, and though Sophronia makes no sound, Dimity can feel through everywhere that they’re touching that Sophronia is laughing too.

This is perhaps what makes Dimity trust and, yes, love Sophronia in a way that she can’t with anyone else. Earlier tonight she was at a party, twirling in her pretty gown with aristocrats tripping over their own feet, while upstairs Sophronia bundled up her own skirts to creep into locked offices and rifle through locked drawers and find plans that the Dewan wants kept safe from, well, everyone. Sophronia will probably put them into Bumbersnoot’s furnace and tell the Dewan that they were inadvertently destroyed when she was extracting them; it wouldn’t be the first time. Dimity suspects that the Dewan knew that this would happen when he asked Sophronia to fetch them in the first place and asked anyway. And now they’re home again, safe and giggling like the schoolgirls they used to be, cosy and intimate and perfect. 

Sophronia’s torn the silk of two of her petticoats straight through and she keeps murmuring in irritation about how difficult it is getting all of Dimity’s jewels unhooked and carefully placed back in their respective boxes, but she steals kisses between every tirade and Dimity is having difficulty herself in unlacing Sophronia’s gown. This is considerably easier when Sophronia is in her breeches, as she is fond of reminding Dimity; there is no way to undress quickly when dressed as a lady. Some days, the waiting can be enjoyable, a game of sorts as they manage to peel one another’s clothes off. Other days, it’s pure frustration, burning their fingers on the strings of each other’s corsets and trying not to ruin another delicate pair of stockings. Sophronia likes nice clothes, but she doesn’t care much for _keeping_ them nice, and sometimes Dimity feels like she’s fighting a constant struggle to remind Sophronia that she’d rather she _not_ tear her favourite gowns just to save time, and that they need careful laying out once removed; some creases never leave silk, no matter how good one’s maid is. Dimity is impatient too, but she _does_ care what she looks like in public, unlike certain young women happy to be seen in public in all sorts of states of disarray.

In the end, though, it is always the same reward; Sophronia’s bright eyes and happily curling mouth as she draws Dimity close, the way she laughs when they’re alone and safe and honest; always and only for her.


End file.
